


No Questions Asked

by PanBoleyn



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-29
Updated: 2010-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-13 10:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanBoleyn/pseuds/PanBoleyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story about the point man, before he was the point man and after. Who are the most important people in Arthur's life, and how did they come to mean so much?</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Questions Asked

**Author's Note:**

> Technically, this is a part of my multi-crossover series A Moment To Be Real, but you really don't need to read any of the others to get this. All you need to know is that DESI is a federal agency that deals with troubles of the sci-fi variety. I figured dream research falls into that category. Oh, and unlike most agencies, DESI tends to recruit across generations.

One step forward, makin' two steps back  
My, oh my  
Riding piggy on the bad man's back for life  
Lining up for the grand illusion  
No answers for no questions asked  
Lining up for the execution  
Without knowing why... – We Are, Ana Johnson

Brian Hartford, DESI Special Agent, is in over his head and he knows it. This is hardly a new feeling, all things considered, but... Two phone calls. Two social workers, different cities and different states. One in L.A., one in Philadelphia. He has a daughter he never knew existed, and a nephew who is now an orphan. And he is, apparently, the only guardian left for either of them.

Jesus fucking Christ. How is he supposed to handle this? Brian can stay calm while being shot at, when faced with things so strange not even the best sci-fi writer could make them up (and he's in a position to know that a lot of sci-fi writers actually don't, or at least they don't make up the basics). He's stared death in the face a few times, taken a bullet once, and been scared, but never so terrified as he was after getting those phone calls. Because really, what does he know about kids? He hasn't been around them since he was one, and his life was hardly conducive to fatherhood.

He'd decided long ago that he didn't want kids.

Brian never regrets his life, how after serving his time in the Air Force, a superior officer suggested he go to a certain recruitment meeting. But DESI is harsh, and he knows what happens to agents' kids when they're old enough. Training, conditioning, because it's simpler to recruit from inside. So he can't see how life with him is a better fate than life in foster care. But he also knows about foster care, because even though he grew up in a decent home DESI attracts broken kids, and several of the people he's worked with are from foster or worse. He might not be better but he can try at least.

Julianna is bright, and funny, and a lot like her mother, the same ice blue eyes staring out of her face. Brian remembers Andrea very well, a budding musician with a voice that stuck with you, lilting and lovely. Jules sings too, sometimes, child's voice holding the promise of her mother's. But she's not a particularly cheerful child, and Brian knows why. Because Andrea – Andy – is very much a child herself, and any child who was raised by Andy would either have had to grow up early or have serious problems like what she was going to eat that day.

Arthur is different. He's a slight little thing who is almost continually silent, dark eyes watching Brian's hands, always his hands, a boy with one arm in a sling and a black eye. Because Brian's sister, Miranda, didn't die of natural causes. She died because she married an alcoholic, and the creep did his best to kill their son too.

Arthur's his godson, but Brian hasn't seen Mira and her little boy since the christening, and he spent the flight from D.C. to Philadelphia trying to imagine the twelve-year-old version of the infant. He can't. Meanwhile, Jules was next to him, quietly listening to her mother's cassettes in the player he bought for her. Andy's voice, filtering through the headphone speakers, had made him want to scream because Andy wasn't dead, she just decided her career meant more than a kid. So why should Jules still want to listen?

And after the trips to L.A. for Jules and Philadelphia for Arthur, Brian has two dark-haired twelve-year-olds in his three-bedroom apartment, the guest room and office converted into kids' bedrooms, and he has no fucking clue what to do next.

Arthur doesn't speak and Jules doesn't trust him, for their own reasons both children watch Brian suspiciously. Arthur's brown eyes wait for this new guardian to lash out. Jules' blue ones wait for him to leave like her mother did. And Brian just wants to scream. But he doesn't. Instead he reads books about preteens, because research never failed him before.

But it's not research that breaks the ice. It is, ironically, Andy's voice echoing in his apartment, and Jules and Arthur sprawled on the living room floor, listening to it. Their heads are close together, and they're talking, and when they see him they grin as one. And Brian realizes that he wasn't the one who needed to get through to them at all – they needed to get through to each other.

~ ~ ~

Being sixteen, Arthur thinks, is really not all it's cracked up to be. Especially not when you're sitting in eighth period on a Friday, thinking about the fact that you know – absolutely know – that there is so much more to worry about than who homecoming king and queen will be. He can't get it out of his head, the things his uncle's been showing him and Jules for the past few weeks. Uncle Bri does it with a sad look in his eyes, like he doesn't want to corrupt them and feels guilty because they don't mind. DESI likes to keep things in-house, he says, so agents are all but required to train their kids.

As it happens, Jules doesn't have the same eighth period that he does. But her class is across the hall, and they both sit in line with the open doors. Blue eyes meet brown as the bell rings, and they're the first kids out. They've been able to do this almost since that day in the living room, listening to Andrea Sinclair. Jules doesn't have her mother's last name anymore, just like Arthur doesn't have his father's; they've both taken Brian's last name and in a legal sense – and an emotional one – they're both his kids and they are siblings, not cousins. And really, all the world cares about is the legalities and all they care about is the emotion, so it works out.

They still listen to Andrea, because even though the car they share has a CD player, it also has a cassette slot, and when Jules drives she often prefers her mother's voice to everyone else's. Arthur doesn't quite understand, but he knows his cousin – sister – loved her mother and still does. He can remember his own mother, and he'd loved her, sure. He'd tried to stop his dad on the night that still haunts his dreams. All he got for it was a broken arm, a concussion, and cracked ribs – and a gravestone with his mother's name.

But he remembers that what happened that night also brought him Jules and Uncle Bri, and though he wishes his mother hadn't paid with her life, he can't wish himself back.

Jules is driving today, so it's her mother's voice flowing through the speakers, and while Arthur stares out the window, she thinks about her mother, and where Andy (because it was always Andy, her mother hated being called “Mom”) is now. She tells herself it doesn't matter, because she has her father and she has Arthur, but she knows, she knows she's just lying to herself. Because it still fucking hurts, the way her mother left her.

They go home, where a man named Leon Vance is there to help training. He's there with a tall redhead who introduces herself as Alex Shepard, and she's Vance's probie. Probationary Agent, it means she's basically Vance's apprentice. Arthur likes her right away, flashing green eyes and dry wit, and he knows Jules thinks the same. It's not a crush, though, not like some of the boys in his year have on the new student teacher, because Arthur has just figured out that he doesn't even like girls. His crush is on the other new student teacher, a guy from UCal who has sun-streaked blond hair. He just likes the wicked grin Alex flashes him and Jules when Vance and Uncle Brian aren't looking.

It's Alex who keeps coming back, who swings by to talk to them on weekends, sitting at the picnic table in the yard with them. Alex is from D.C. as well, she went to school in New York and Philadelphia and her sister is working in Europe, a member of a different government agency. NCIS, which apparently is tied to the Navy. Arthur never knew about that.

“You know, once you two are out of college, you'll need an agent to be attached to,” Alex says one day, toying with her bottle of Mountain Dew. Jules puts down her Sunkist and Arthur closes his Pepsi, they both look at her sharply. Alex smiles faintly, then continues. “Most agents would want to split you up, but... I don't. They won't let Brian train you, but they'll let me train you both.”

Training comes a lot sooner than they think. Because it's only a month after that when Alex and Vance show up at the house, and Brian was away on a job, and Arthur and Jules look at each other and they know exactly what the agents are here to tell them.

The funeral is quiet, and Jules thinks she's glad it's overcast but not actually raining. It shouldn't be rainy, because that would make a mess of everything and her father was always so neat and tidy – and Arthur's just like him, even though Jules takes after her mother in this – that it makes sense for the day to be neat too. Even if it's fucking awful.

Alex comes up to them after. “Hasling wants you to move in with me,” she says, her voice grim. “Jen's not coming home anytime soon, so she won't be around to ask questions.” Jen being Alex's sister, who last Jules knew was somewhere in France, doing undercover work with a boss she's also sleeping with. Alex will say whatever she's thinking very bluntly if you catch her right, which is how Jules knows about the affair. And also that just now the redhead is terrified that her big sister is setting herself up for heartbreak.

But she still takes the teens home, and she makes them hot chocolate, a wry smile on her face as she explains how her sister once told her it was magic. “And I know it's not, and you're too old to fall for that, but hell. It still makes Jen and me feel better, and God knows I don't know what else to do. My sister and I drink it whenever something bad happens, I don't really know how else to help.”

And that explains the conversation at the picnic table. Alex understood not separating them because she has Jenny. And they have a bond like Jules and Arthur do. It's good to know that someone understands something, because right now, all Jules understands, as she rests her head on the counter in Alex's kitchen, Arthur with his arm around her shoulders, is that nothing makes any sense now.

All they have of Brian now is memories, some photos, and a couple of trinkets. There's his loaded red die. It always comes up one and he used to say it was good luck. Jules tries not to think that on the mission where he died, he'd forgotten it. Arthur is rolling the die with his free hand, and Jules slips her hand into the pocket of her black dress pants. Her father's challenge coin from his Air Force days has a slight imperfection in the engraving, something you can't feel at all and can only see if you know what to look for.

It feels like them, like her and Arthur. Arthur leaves nothing to chance but makes it all look like it just happens, a die that's loaded makes perfect sense for him to keep. And her, well... The boys like her at school – she supposes that's liked now, apparently they're getting GEDs and being thrown right into this shit, no proper college needed when you deal in the impossible – and they don't see her imperfections. Arthur knows where they all are, just like she knows the time he spends planning every little detail of life.

It's not like the hot chocolate tradition Alex tried to share with them, as kind a gesture as that was. Jules and Arthur don't have and don't need patterns like that. They're fine with just each other, and these two little artifacts from the man who brought them together.

~ ~ ~

It makes sense, six years later, when Agents Hartford – that's how everyone refers to them, Shepard's proteges who can't be split up – are directed to the dreamscape project, that the coin is Jules' totem, and the die is Arthur's. Another agent, who isn't part of the dreamscape program but is in their lab today, watches the two of them with an odd expression.

Neither Hartford knows Paula Ravenwood that well, she's their age but has never worked the same jobs. They know of her, of course, know the fact that she's the top psychic in the building and really, no one should have that kind of power. Of course, there's also the rumors about why her eyes are that weird shade of amber and why she wears those black opera gloves all the time, stories that say whatever power she has was already paid for, with interest.

The fact is, Paula can read minds, she's a goddamn telepath, and today the assignment was to break into her mind with the PASIV. And Jules never, ever wants to do that again. She was acting as extractor, Arthur as architect, and they got in, that was more than anyone thought could be done with someone like Paula, drugged or not, but... “Behind that calm face, you are one screwed-up individual,” Arthur tells the redhead as he's putting away the PASIV, and Jules is just glad he said it first.

Paula laughs, head tipped to one side, her American accent holding a British lilt that has never been properly explained by anyone. “And you're not, Hartford?” she asks, a question that should be cutting but is really just a little sardonic. “We work here, is there a one of us who isn't fucked up somehow?”

“Your subconscious has things in it that are just... wrong,” Jules tells her.

“Well, it would; don't yours?”

“No,” Arthur says evenly. “Ours are protected, but yours is... What were those things?”

“Blocks. They're not meant for blocking extraction, but apparently they have an odd effect on it. Which is good to know.” Paula gets up, crosses to the door, and pauses one last time. “Incidentally, the reverse is true too. You dreamscapers are the quietest minds in the building. It'd almost be worth a transfer just to get a damn break from everyone.” She laughs, it's a slightly odd, vaguely broken thing, because they got painful secrets from her before the dream went to hell, and then she walks out.

“Christ,” Arthur says with feeling, slumping in a chair. “I wouldn't wish my early childhood on anyone, but I wouldn't have wanted hers either.”

“No,” Jules agrees, especially as her story is closer to Paula's than Arthur's is. One redheaded six-year-old left in a shopping mall, one dark-haired twelve-year-old given a plane ticket and sent on her way. Different, but close enough to leave the adult who used to be that twelve-year-old faintly sick to her stomach. “I really hate how they make us do this. I mean, I get practice, research, what have you, but... Do we have to go around mind raping people for no good reason but practice?”

Arthur shrugs as he loosens the tie around his neck. His suit jacket is draped over a chair, but his white shirt is still fully buttoned. Truth to tell, part of him likes snatching people's closely-guarded secrets, part of him enjoys the chase, but he agrees. Not like this. They shouldn't be delving into secrets for no reason at all. Even being paid for it would be a reason he could live with, something practical. But for practice, it shouldn't be so nasty.

He rolls the die across the table, even as, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jules take out the coin and study it carefully. Because really, as much as they might understand why Paula's mind is such an unpleasant place to be, even in a dream they set up, she scared the hell out of them and it's good to know they're awake. They're the best among the agents assigned to the dreamscape program, it's no surprise they were given Paula for their latest test subject. Always a new challenge, and the Hartfords always prove themselves equal to it. They've built a career out of it.

The door swings open, Alex striding in. She's the one running Dreamscape, so it makes sense she'd want to know if they broke past Ravenwood’s defenses. “I passed by Ravenwood,” she says with no preamble. “I take it things went well?”

“Hello to you too,” Jules quips, peering at Alex over her laptop, still typing up notes. Arthur, who prefers a notebook, just sighs.

“Yeah, Alex, it worked. But we'd rather leave Ravenwood’s subconscious alone from now on, if it's all the same to you.”

“Well, there's no need, is there? You got through, we don't have anyone stronger in the agency for telepathy. Chances are you won't find anyone in the field stronger either, so we know what we have to.”

Arthur and Jules glance at each other. “We barely got through, and it's not something I'd recommend we try on any enemy telepaths,” Arthur explains after a moment.

“Duly noted,” Alex says, nodding. “Hasling won't be pleased to hear it, but we've got other defenses. Anyway, I thought you should know, we're adding a pair of civilians to the project,”

“Civvies? Really?” Jules asks, finally interested enough to put the laptop aside.

“Yeah. A pair of newlyweds as I understand it. He's quite the architect – with rather good extracting skills to go along with it – and she, apparently, is a brilliant chemist. I know you're both good, but quite frankly, Arthur, you make a better point man than anything, and Jules... I'm not sure what to call your instinct for how to soothe the marks, but that's your best skill.”

“Are we getting a forger as well?” Arthur wants to know.

“Not at the moment, no.”

“Pity,” Jules murmurs. “Could be interesting.”

“We have names for these newlyweds?” Arthur asks.

“Dominic and Mallorie Cobb. They start tomorrow.”

~ ~ ~

After Mal's suicide proves to be the disastrous end result of the experiments she and Dom had been working on, Arthur and Jules find themselves doing all they can to hold their research partner and his kids together. It's a fucking mess, and it only gets worse when it becomes clear that Mal set Dom up for murdering her. And Arthur's in Director Hasling's office, losing his temper for probably only the third time in the fifteen years Jules has known him. Because Dom and Mal didn't know it was DESI they were working for, the Cobbs had been under the impression Jules and Arthur were FBI, so Hasling doesn't want to pull the strings that DESI always can to stop Dom's pending arrest.

And Jules knows, she knows because while she had become good friends with Mal, Arthur and Dom had hit it off to the point that they're practically best friends now. 'Practically' because Dom was all caught up with Mal, even before she started losing it, and because Arthur doesn't trust anyone quite like he does Jules. It goes both ways, but still, Jules knows her cousin well enough, knows the bond he's forged with Dom well enough to know what's next.

It's horrible, it fucking hurts like hell, when she watches them leave. Arthur's driving, because Dom is still just enough of a mess that they don't trust him behind the wheel. For the first time since the age of twelve, Jules is alone, only one of the Agents Hartford left, and she doesn't know if she can stand it. But she has to, she has a job to do, and she promised Dom she'd keep an eye on the kids too, so there's all kinds of reasons for her to hold it together.

Arthur doesn't have time to really think about what it's like, to not be always able to look to his left or right and meet a pair of laughing blue eyes. He's too busy holding Dom together, too busy starting them off in the goddamn criminal underground – and how did it come to this, he doesn't understand that - to think about it. And then it's awful, it's not right in fundamental ways that just... But as bad as it is, Jules is still alive, and he can still call, mostly from pay phones or burn phones. And he can listen to his iPod, to that damned CD of Andrea's, because it makes it all a little easier when he can close his eyes and imagine he's twelve again hearing this for the first time.

And that's how they get through the next year and a half. Occasional calls and postcards, plus one night when they run into Jules in Tel Aviv. She's working with Mossad when it happens, but slips away from her handler for a night to sit up with them in their shitty hotel, drink crappy beer, and talk about everything that's been happening to them all. She leaves Cobb with pictures of Philippa and James, and Arthur with a tight hug.

Then, because apparently even apart they have to do things together, their worlds tilt within months of each other. And they're not even dreaming this time.

~ ~ ~

It happens to Jules first, when her new supervisor – Dreamscape was shut down five months after Arthur left, and Alex was reassigned away from the main HQ – finally gets sick of having this one stubborn agent who won't work with a partner. Jules tells herself that Brent Williams has enough on his plate – he just lost three agents in a job out of the Middle East. So she doesn't make any smart-mouth comments when she's told that she's being placed with someone.

“We've got an Australian agent coming in, more encouragement to be cooperative,” Williams says, a twist to his mouth.

“Oh, I'm sure Hasling loves that.”

“He wants to kill someone over it, but there's nothing to be done. You're working with this guy for the foreseeable future, and God help me, Hartford, if you intentionally fuck this up...”

“Yeah, yeah, Brent, you'll string me up by my intestines or something equally lovely. Don't you ever get sick of this spiel?”

“Not with you, you've been a grumpy bitch the whole time I've known you. You miss your cousin that much?”

It's a stupid question, so stupid it really doesn't deserve an answer, so Jules doesn't provide one, unless a cool stare counts. They stare at each other for a few minutes, then Brent rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Anyway, the guy should be here in a few – ”

“Are you talking about me?” Jules turns at the sound of the new voice, surprised she didn't hear the door open, and actually stops dead for a moment. Then she gives Brent a skeptical look that clearly says, Are you really putting me with Pretty Boy here? But she offers the new guy a polite smile, holding out her hand. “Jules Hartford, nice to meet you.”

“Aidan Turner. Charmed.” Blue eyes several shades brighter than Jules' own eye her carefully, and she returns the sharp look with one of her own. The categorization of 'Pretty Boy' is summarily dismissed – no mere piece of eye candy has eyes like that. She imagines he must use his looks to disarm people, and hates how it so nearly worked on her. But still, she is grudgingly impressed. Arthur – who, to his frustration, can also be labeled as a pretty boy – should have taught her better. She thought he had taught her better. This guy is good.

Brent sends them off a few minutes later, and Jules suggests they hit the commissary. If nothing else, they can have coffee and a chance to talk. She's a bit surprised when the cold look in Aidan's eyes doesn't fade in the slightest, even when he's acting perfectly cheerful. Worse, she's stunned by how intriguing she finds that, which cannot be a good idea in the slightest.

She's right, of course. It doesn't help that she's always had a secret weakness for accents like Aidan's, and well... Yeah. She does not sleep with him, although she thinks about it. She is a professional, after all, and they are partners. If this was temporary, well, maybe she would sleep with him then. But she has to work with him every day, has to trust that he will have her back in the field as she has his. Sex will just complicate that.

And in all honesty, it's not even that. It's that Aidan has flashes of humanity under the Ice King exterior. He's got moments when he forgets to be cold and will actually smile for real, his eyes warming for once, and when he does... It made her stop in her tracks the first time. She could fall in love with that smile. So, as much as she enjoys seeing it, she is glad it doesn't appear often. Because she does not need to fall in love.

Or so she tells herself. Then there's a case that doesn't go quite as well as usual, and Aidan gets shot. It's not serious, but it's enough to have him in the hospital, enough to leave her shaking and sick in a bathroom stall. And fuck it all, apparently she's at least half in love with him after all. Still, she can handle this, as long as she keeps it to herself. It shouldn't be too hard – Jules was in drama club in high school, she's aces at undercover work. She is a very good actress; why can't she keep this under wraps?

No matter what, she's still not going to sleep with him. Jules Hartford doesn't do half-measures. They just make everything worse. Don't they?

~ ~ ~

For Arthur, it actually starts with a familiar face. He and Cobb are in London, for a meeting scheduled with some forger – he's not sure how he feels about that, since he's used to working with just Cobb but he's also extremely curious about forging. That's when he sees Ashley Stafford. He and Jules had spent a year working with DESI's British counterparts, which is how he knows the dark-haired scientist.

Still, he doesn't draw attention to himself – he's a criminal now, after all. But she sees him, green eyes sharp as ever, he notes, and falls into step beside him. “I hear you're on the wrong side of the law now,” she teases, a wry grin lighting up her face.

“Jules tell you why?”

“Yeah, it sucks. I take it you heard about...”

“That mess Hartman caused? 27 survivors out of several hundred personnel? Yeah, I know. And I heard... Daniel...” He'd liked Daniel, an ex-SAS officer with a dry sense of humor, often cool and distant. Except where Ashley was concerned; they'd been a hell of a couple, he remembers now, so much so that the thought of Ashley without Daniel is somehow wrong.

“He's not dead.” The words are so matter-of-fact, but so contrary to what he'd heard that he just stares at her. She laughs tiredly at his expression. “I found out... The full story's complicated, but basically he... The new director confirmed it for me, he's been tossed into some kind of top-secret shit and reprogrammed, apparently.”

“Like brainwashing?” It can be done, but it's usually not something even the shadowy parts of government like, what the hell?

“Yeah. Actually, I told Jules to ask, but I guess I can do it myself now. If I find him... When I find him, think you could use your dreamscape skills to help reverse it?”

“Ash, I'm not sure...”

“Neither am I, but it can't make things worse, can it?” Arthur can think of all kinds of things to say – there's Mal, if nothing else – but he never gets the chance, not when a young woman with pixie-cut blonde hair and a young man with unkempt dark hair and a rather... noticeable hat call Ashley's name. She flashes Arthur one quick smile and a pleading look, then walks away.

“Fuck,” Arthur says to himself. Because he won't turn her down. He knows that already. Ashley's an old friend. And Daniel is his friend too – not to mention the man once saved Arthur's life, and the point man never did repay that debt. So... Cursing seems an appropriate response.

Then he gets to the warehouse where Cobb and this new guy are waiting. Arthur actually stops dead, trying to makes sense of the newcomer's clothes. Did he steal that coat from a dead man or something? Who the hell wears that kind of shit anymore? Pushing the thoughts aside, he steps forward, holding out a hand.

Cobb opens his mouth to perform introductions, but the forger – at least Arthur assumes this is the forger, or else Cobb has a lot of explaining to do – beats him to it, shaking Arthur's hand and running his thumb lightly across Arthur's knuckles. What the...?

“Hello, darling, I'm Eames,” he says, with a British accent and a wicked grin. Arthur moves back, raising one eyebrow coolly.

“My name is Arthur, Mr. Eames. I would appreciate if you used it.” He retreats into icy professionalism to hide the jolt that Eames' smile and the brush of his thumb cause. Cursing seems an even more appropriate response now than it did fifteen minutes ago. Fucking hell. Yeah, that about covers it.

They do the job in three weeks, and Arthur finds that Eames has no concept of personal space. The point man also finds that apparently, Eames' inability to grasp this very basic idea has an adverse effect on his own concentration. Arthur decides that really, this just won't do. He needs to stay focused; if he misses something they could all end up on the run or dead, after all. He simply can't do that with an abrasive, cocky, should-not-be-attractive-but-is forger hanging over him all the time.

However, because he is a professional, he ignores this until after the job is over. And then, when he is packing up his workspace and Eames comes to hang over him again, well... Three weeks is a long time to hold back, and Arthur is only human. Since Eames kisses him back, that in fact Eames is the one who tears Arthur's shirt off his back – though Arthur would have been happy to rip that monstrosity the forger is wearing to shreds instead, and not just out of a lust-fueled urgency – Arthur will always go on record as saying that it wasn't a bad idea for him to have pushed Eames up against a wall.

Or, well, for a while he'll say it was a good idea. He'll say it for over a year, in fact, every time Jules raises an eyebrow or the one time when Alex is there too and chokes on her coffee. He will say it until the day he realizes just how fucking out of control this has gotten, and then he'll change his mind abruptly.

Because Arthur Hartford doesn't do relationships. He never has. He has friends and he has people he fucks. These two things almost never cross – they only really did once, with Ashley and a memorable two months where he discovered that yes, he really is gay, not bi, and while sex with a woman is interesting, it's not what he's looking for – and he does not consider having occasional sex with a sometimes co-worker crossing those lines. Except... Except somehow, they end up doing more than just have sex. There is verbal warfare during jobs that is somewhere between truly hostile and openly flirting, they occasionally have a real conversation instead of just falling into bed, they... There have been a few mornings when they're both still there, and those are the best times, Arthur finds, they actually talk to each other and almost connect, for lack of a better term.

And he finds that somewhere, somewhere in between all of this, he's gone and fallen in love with Eames. The worst part of it is, he has no idea how this happened. Oh no, wait, there's something even worse. There is no way, absolutely no way, that Eames feels the same way about him. It sounds like some kind of bad joke, Arthur reflects the day he finally works this little fact out, as he steadily makes his way through a bottle of vodka.

Dom finds him passed out on the floor of his apartment, and it is a mark of how consumed the extractor is by the fact that a vicious projection Mal has started showing up on jobs that he doesn't ask Arthur why. He misses Jules more than ever that day, fighting off a hangover while Dom doesn't even think to question why always-collected Arthur is such a mess. Even Eames would ask – Arthur is reasonably certain Eames is fond of him, in his careless way, and the forger is an extremely perceptive, annoyingly curious individual even if he doesn't care at all. But with Dom it's Mal and getting home and while Arthur gets that, sometimes he wishes the guy who was one of his best friends for a while could spare one moment for sympathy or even just to ask a question.

But he keeps having sex with Eames. Because even though Arthur's never been a fan of half-measures, it's something. Right?

~ ~ ~

It can't continue, of course. Arthur and Jules don't talk about it, to each other or anyone, and it's the first time they've kept something this important from each other. But they are both trying what is almost the same balancing act, and no one can keep something like this up. Not even the famously stubborn Hartford cousins, as Alex once called them. They slip, eventually, and everything changes yet again.

Jules and Aidan go to Sydney because Aidan has to report to his boss – his father, actually, who is the director of TWA (Torchwood Australia, but they use the initials so as not to be labeled with the 'mavericks' of Torchwood Cardiff, which is the only active branch left of Britain's Torchwood). Aidan is a legacy agent, much like Jules and Arthur, or the Mayfair twins they helped train.

And as it turns out, Matthew Turner is a grade-A bastard, and he completely explains his son's cold mask. Jules can imagine this guy drilling icy composure into his son from birth, and it's not a pleasant image. And Aidan... God, he's worse than usual, every bit of humanity drained away during the interview with Director Turner, and she can't fucking stand it. So once they've left, walked half of the five blocks to their parking place, she throws caution to the winds and shoves him against the side of a building.

“Hartford, what – ” He's cut off by her mouth on his, a hard kiss that's almost angry, because she'd been trying not to do this. And deep down, she expects him to shove her off and give her a politely puzzled frown, but then he's kissing her back, and his hands are at her waist... Suddenly she's the one against the wall, and his lips have left her mouth and are trailing down her neck, with her hand fisted in his hair.

She manages to think vaguely that it's a good thing they're in what is basically a back alley, but still...

Which is why she pulls back, and they go to the car, and drive back to their hotel. Privacy is something one wants at certain times, after all.

~ ~ ~

Guadalajara is hotter than Arthur likes – he was born in Philadelphia and then he lived in D.C. until running off with Cobb, so Mexico is not exactly to his tastes. But there's a job here, and they're working with Eames again. It has occurred to Arthur, in the times between the jobs with Eames, that he really is just torturing himself by playing fuck buddies with the man he's fallen hopelessly in love with, but what else can he do? There's a voice in the back of his mind – sometimes it sounds like Jules, other times like Alex – lecturing him for being so stupid, but he's gotten very good at tuning it out.

There is one thing he actually does like about Mexico. That would be the tequila. Eames agrees, and they get completely smashed. They're not so drunk that they can't manage sex, though; Arthur wonders vaguely if they could manage to be alone without fucking under any circumstances, period. Maybe they can't – he is, as it will turn out, going to spend the next two years making damn sure he doesn't find out – but alcohol does have its effects. Because for some reason, and it has to be the tequila because that's the only thing that's different from all the other times, he doesn't bite his tongue. In Arthur's defense, he thinks Eames is asleep when he whispers “I love you” into the darkness, but a second later he feels the body next to him tense up. He freezes, waiting for the rejection, for... He's not even sure what, but there is nothing.

But the next morning, he wakes up alone. Arthur doesn't really remember the rest of that day, but he must have gone to the airport and bought a ticket to D.C., and gotten drunk somewhere in there, since he wakes up the next morning in Jules' guest room with a killer hangover. It's odd, he didn't have a hangover from the night with Eames, but he has one from his way of coping with the fact that he has royally fucked up this time.

Cobb calls him the next day from Vienna, wanting to know where the fuck he's got off to. “I'll be back in a few days,” he tells the extractor.

“I want you back today!”

“Fuck off, Dom.” He hangs up. Right now, he can't deal with Cobb, with the mess he can't pull his almost-former friend out of. Almost because Cobb's not Dom anymore, losing Mal and his kids in one fell swoop broke him and Projection Mal is only making it worse. But whatever Cobb is to him, whatever Dom was to him in the old days, he can't face it now. He can't help keep Cobb's broken pieces together when he feels like he might fall apart completely.

“You want to talk about it?” Jules asks.

“Do you want to talk about the fact that your partner keeps a change of clothes here?” he snaps, not in the mood for sympathy.

“That's really none of your damn business.”

“And this isn't yours.”

Jules glares at him, and he glares right back. They both know he's picking a fight so she won't give him sympathy, because he can't stay calm if she tries to comfort him, but...

The fight is long, and nasty. No one can fight like family, especially when you're as close as Jules and Arthur have always been. Old wounds, stupid things they just never mentioned, are thrown in each other's faces, and after a certain point, real objects are thrown as well. Finally, Arthur says, “Fuck this,” and storms out, catching a plane to Vienna after all.

Two weeks later, he and Cobb are in Budapest when he gets an e-mail. Fine, I won't pry anymore, but this is not an apology because I'm not sorry for giving a damn.

Arthur sends this reply: I don't want to talk about it. Not now, not ever. But I'll handle it better next time.

They don't talk about it. There's nothing to say. For the next two years, whenever they could use Eames, Arthur quickly gets Cobb thinking of someone else, implying that he knows Eames has other things he's doing. Which is plausible because he actually does know what Eames is up to. He keeps tabs on the other man, though he's not sure why. Eames usually is not doing something that would prevent him from working with Cobb and Arthur. But Arthur is not willing to work with Eames, not yet.

It's only after the complete mess that the Cobol job was, only when Saito is offering to give Cobb exactly what he needs if the extractor can put together a team to do the impossible, that Arthur relents. He thinks they should walk away from this, but he knows that Cobb can't. He needs his family back, which isn't wrong. And Arthur will be there, because how can he not be? He's been at Cobb's side this long, he's not turning away now. He probably should have a long time ago, but he didn't then so he isn't now.

“Eames? He's in Mombasa.”

~ ~ ~

Under other circumstances, Jules would be there to pick Arthur up from LAX, or at least to meet him so they can hop another plane to D.C. together, but working a top-secret job somewhere in Eastern Europe sort of puts a wrench in that sort of plan. He could still go to D.C., he knows he's welcome, but it would just be him and Aidan. Arthur's never been close to Jules' lover – the fact that he threatened the Aussie with several deaths (and thanks to dreams, he wasn't exaggerating) if he hurt Jules probably has something to do with it.

Which is why he ends up grabbing his bag from the luggage carousel and glancing around aimlessly. Cobb and Miles are probably already on the road, not that he blames them. Yusuf, he remembers, had said something that morning about getting the chance to be a proper tourist, and sure enough, he's browsing a gift shop. Saito's vanished, and Ariadne seems to be catching up with an old schoolmate – the girl in question is wearing a tank top with the same high school logo as the t-shirt he remembered Ariadne wearing a few times. They're talking a mile a minute, so he just offers her a slight wave as he walks by, getting a quick smile in return. As for Eames –

“Looking for something, pet?” Arthur manages not to jump at the sound of the forger's voice in his ear, warm breath tickling his skin. But he spins around, fixing the other man with a death glare.

“No. What do you want, Mr. Eames?”

“Touchy, are we?”

“Eames...”

“Why don't you and I have a few drinks? You need to relax, and I feel like celebrating.”

“I don't think that's a good idea.” Arthur's voice is cold.

“You didn't used to have that stick shoved quite so far up your lovely arse,” Eames says, rocking back on his heels. Clearly, the level of venom in Arthur's voice surprises him; the point man wonders why even as he fires back.

“Maybe I don't want to celebrate with a man who's perfected the fucking vanishing act,” he snarls, surprising even himself that time with how harsh his tone is. But it's like Guadalajara's memory is pushing the words out, and he finally can't stop himself.

He turns on his heel and walks away. If he doesn't, Arthur knows what he'll say next. I told you I loved you, and you couldn't even grant me the fucking courtesy of rejecting me to my face! And now you want to go have drinks? The words are spinning in his head, loud enough to drown all other thought, and he wants to shout them in Eames' smug face. But his pride won't allow that, so he makes his escape instead.

Or he tries to. He gets further than he expected before he is yanked into what he assumes is some kind of service corridor. Eames pushes him up against the wall and Arthur is swallowing his fury, along with other feelings he wishes weren't there. Apparently time has not cured this ill. Damn it.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Eames demands.

“You,” Arthur all but spits the word out, dark eyes blazing. He's had it. “You are my problem. Goddamn it, you've made it abundantly clear that this is all just a game to you. So go find someone else to play with. Leave me be.”

“Arthur, what...?” Eames is puzzled now, and Arthur could laugh if he wasn't so pissed off. For a man who is extremely good at reading people, Eames is apparently clueless with regards to Arthur.

“Guadalajara. April '08. Finding myself alone was a pretty good indication as to where you stand. I'd have appreciated a little more courtesy on your part, but the point was very clear.” He wants his voice to be even, calm, but it comes out horribly bitter. But, on balance, the suddenly pained expression on Eames' face is worth losing his cool a little. And if this is the only chance he has to get it all off his chest...

“What?” he accuses, meeting the other man's confused gray eyes. “Now you feel bad about it? You asked, Eames, if you don't want an answer don't ask the fucking question. I get that all you wanted was a fuck buddy, and I'm so sorry to mess that up for you, but I – ” can't keep doing this to myself “ – don't feel like playing games anymore.” Sarcasm is a defense he's used since his teen years, usually to great effect. It seems to be missing the mark slightly, however. Eames' expression has gone unreadable, and Arthur really doesn't know why.

“I thought you weren't – I thought you didn't mean it.” That voice Arthur knows so well, that he would probably dream about if Somnacin hadn't stopped his natural dreams years ago, is rough, as unlike Eames' usually smooth, joking tone as it is possible to be.

“You... what? I am not in the habit of saying shit that I don't mean. I told you I loved you; does that sound like something I'd be idiotic enough to lie about?”

“We'd been drinking and it was still afterglow,” Eames pointed out, voice still raw. “I panicked. I didn't want to hear you take it back once you regretted it in the morning.” Arthur can't ignore the pain in Eames' voice, and suddenly he's questioning his understanding of the situation. But he needs things to be clear.

“I didn't plan on taking it back. So, if you had known that, what would have happened?” The question is a challenge, which might not be the best method, but there it is.

Eames pauses, swallowing hard. “I wouldn't have left. Not then, and not at all until I had to.” Arthur's uncertainty – does Eames mean what he thinks he means – must show on his face, because Eames almost laughs. “I suppose it's my turn to say I love you,” he says wryly, “though I had hoped you'd work that out on your own, darling.”

“And how was I supposed to – ” Arthur's condescending tone is meant teasingly this time; the rather foolish smile on his face ought to make that clear. But Eames doesn't let him finish, instead taking Arthur by surprise when he kisses him, hard. The surprise only lasts a second, though, and then Arthur is giving as good as he gets, for a kiss that lasts as long as the need for oxygen will allow. As far as he's concerned, it's still over too soon. When they finally do break apart, Eames rests his forehead on Arthur's, so they're still almost maddeningly close.

“We probably shouldn't be doing this here,” Arthur says after a moment. Eames' lips quirk into a slight smile.

“My offer of drinks is still open, though making use of a hotel room mini-bar seems like a better idea than a pub just now.”

Arthur laughs; he can't help it. “Sounds like a good plan from here.

~ ~ ~

Cardiff in September isn't that different from D.C., Arthur notes with some satisfaction. Chillier, yes, but not uncomfortably so. He and Eames are sitting at a coffeeshop's outdoor table, ostensibly doing recon for their latest job but really just enjoying each other's company. Of course, since it's Eames, who can't behave himself, the Brit's foot is slowly making its way up Arthur's leg. He can't quite bring himself to mind.

There is a laugh from behind him and Eames is raising an eyebrow at someone Arthur can't see, but he knows the sound of Jules' laughter. Sure enough, his cousin takes the table's vacant third seat, glancing between them with humor dancing in her blue eyes. “You know, Arthur, I never thought I'd see you let someone play footsies with you in public,” she quips.

“Jules, fuck off,” Arthur says evenly, but there's a smile tugging at his mouth, despite his best efforts to squelch it.

“Ah, pet, are you going to introduce me?” Eames asks, gray eyes flickering between Arthur and Jules. Arthur knows Eames probably sees the family resemblance, but he makes it clear anyway.

“Eames, this is my cousin, Jules Hartford. Jules – ”

“Ah, so you're Eames,” Jules cuts him off, bright gaze turning on Eames. “I've not heard nearly as much about you as I'd have liked, but it's very nice to meet you,” she says, holding out a hand. At the forger's questioning look, she tilts her head toward Arthur and explains, “This one doesn't talk much about his personal life, it's really very depressing.”

“Excuse me for not wanting to discuss my sex life with my cousin,” Arthur mutters.

“I never asked about your sex life, not precisely,” Jules says. “I can if you like.”

“Uh, no, thank you.”

Eames bursts out laughing. When they both give him identical glares, he only laughs harder. “Oh no, don't stop on my account,” he chokes out. “This is quite entertaining, I ought to be paying admittance, really.”

“I like you,” Jules laughs while Arthur rolls his eyes. “And that is a very good thing, Mr. Eames.”

“Oh?” Eames wants to know, leaning forward. “And why should it matter if you like me, Ms. Hartford?” he asks, copying her mode of address. Jules shrugs, leaning back in her chair.

“Because as long as you're in Arthur's life, I'll be in yours. That's just how it works,” she explains.

“Jules, is this payback for Aidan?” Arthur wants to know.

“Considering you threatened him and I'm just having a polite conversation, no,” she says, slanting her cousin an annoyed look. “I still don't get why you did that, by the way. I can watch out for myself.”

“Not the point,” Arthur informs her. “And speaking of points, what is the point of this?”

“Always the point man.” Jules blinks, then shakes her head. “Wow, incredibly bad pun there, I do apologize to you both. Actually, this is just about my curiosity, and being friendly.” She stops when her phone beeps, and she flips it open, frowning down at the screen. “Well, that figures. Harkness' people are chronically late; for once they're early. Must be Tosh Sato, or maybe Ianto. If it's Ianto, I'll say hi for you, Arthur.” Picking up her to-go coffee cup, she stands, flashing them a smile.

“Well, this little chat's been fun, I'll see you around.” With a wave she's gone, and Eames turns back to Arthur.

“Does that happen a lot?”

Arthur chuckles. “Not as much as I'd like. We grew up together; her dad got custody of us at about the same time, and then we were both Feds together until I ran off with Cobb.”

“I still find it hard to believe you were a government agent, and I'm desperately curious as to why you won't tell me which agency. I don't suppose she would?”

“Jules still works there, so not likely. It really is of the 'if I tell you I'd have to kill you' variety of secrets, Sean.”

Eames raises his eyebrows at the use of his first name, and Arthur just tilts his head, giving the other man an unreadable look. He'd dropped the name for a reason; mainly to emphasize that he is serious about this. Arthur doesn't know that he could be slapping a death sentence on Eames' head by telling him about DESI, but he does know Director Hasling well enough to be unwilling to risk it. The day that old man retires and his likely replacement Vance takes over will be a good day for lots of people, including Arthur. He thinks he might tell Eames more then.

“Well, I'd rather stay breathing,” Eames says carelessly, “so I suppose I can drop it for the moment.”

He doesn't ask any more about Jules either, though he probably wants to and it's certain within his rights to ask. But he doesn't, instead he lets Arthur decide to tell him. Which is probably why Arthur does, why he reveals the entire tale, or at least most of it. He's never really talked about it before, not even to Cobb and Mal who always commented on how the cousins worked so seamlessly together, but Eames just has to give him that patient look and he's spilling secrets.

Arthur knows why, though he's not good at saying it out loud. Guadalajara was a rarity in that regard, because it turns out he does need the alcohol to easily admit how he feels. But that's all right, because it doesn't need to be said. He knows that this is the kind of bond that lasts, the one that doesn't need articulation or questioning. It's a good thing to know.


End file.
